“Five Stages of Writer’s Grief”

Denial. I’m a notable, talented and prolific writer, and I can finish a story in a day, and any notable publication will accept me.

Anger. Why, after five consecutive days, can I not come up with a better plot than a man and a woman having sex on Parisian cobblestones under the acid rain, and better motivation for their action than a mixture of boredom and weed?

Bargaining. Please, let me come up with a new idea, and I will never write a negative book review again.

Depression. Am I really losing my touch? My description of sex on Parisian cobblestones is so pedestrian and it would torture the reader even if it passes by the editor.

Acceptance. What is wrong with a plot about a man and a woman having sex on Parisian cobblestones except for them having bruises and burns, but that is not my problem? I can always claim Jean-Paul-Charles-Aymard Sartre made me do it, and if a notable publication would not accept me, there are plenty of newly baked ezines that would be happy to have me.

About Mark Budman

Mark Budman was born in the former Soviet Union. His writing appeared in Five Points, PEN, American Scholar, Huffington Post, World Literature Today, Daily Science Fiction, Mississippi Review, Virginia Quarterly, The London Magazine (UK), McSweeney's, Sonora Review, Another Chicago, Sou'wester, Southeast Review, Mid-American Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Short Fiction (UK), and elsewhere. He is the publisher of the flash fiction magazine Vestal Review. His novel My Life at First Try was published by Counterpoint Press. He co-edited flash fiction anthologies from Ooligan Press and Persea Books/Norton.
http://markbudman.com

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In bed, I can do anything: fly a rocket ship to Alpha Centauri, buy the Koh-I-Noor diamond, or make love to you in a hundred different ways. But when I wake up, my phone reads 9:20, and all that’s left of you is a humanoid depression on the saggy mattress and the vaguest scent of vanilla-jasmine. I stare at the far wall, blank as an unfilled form, and try to recreate you from last night.
You wore men’s cargo pants and a sleeveless blouse that showed off your bicycle tattoo. You were polite as peach pie except when you swore at your own two feet after stumbling back to the barstool after three G&T’s. You asked if I’d be your Uber.
Your small, slow smile broadened throughout the night until it included me, the whole bar, all of downtown Newark, and the two stars visible over the Ironbound district.
Going back to my place was your idea.
You asked if I had any weed, and we burned up the last of my July stash.
I’ve been lonely for a while—all right, my whole life—and all you had to do was touch me. You did.
Now I make my way to the bathroom, splash some water on